


Even After You Are Gone

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All the small coffins, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chaos and Order, Cosmic Strings Interpretation, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Multi, Parenthood, Positive Outcome?, Primordial Duo, Pseudo-Incest, R plus L equals J, Time Travel, When the gods don't give we make our own, fix-it?, the Two That Count, this should cover everything, written for all the tropes coverage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 23:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Jon and Sansa have more luck escaping their pursuers that they thought they would. The price, however, is equal to the benefit as they find themselves flung into a storm far greater than any they have seen. The sun brings with it tidings of the most peculiar kind when the gods decide second chances are in order.AU! Some truths are best experienced firsthand, as Jon and Sansa find out when they face history in its most unexpected form.





	Even After You Are Gone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jon winced as the pain panned out in wave after wave, stealing his breath away with the same quickness with which he had unthinkingly charged into the attack. His lungs burned. His throat constricted. Sansa’s fair visage came into view, her pale cheeks stained and smudged. Jon followed the tiny movements of her. “I thought you were done for.” Her voice held that weepy-quality she so oft adopted when faced with danger.

“Hodor,” came a grunt from the kindly giant who had rammed a broken shard of dragonglass into the White Walker.

“Can you move?” Sansa questioned, ignoring their simple helper. Jon tried for a shake of the head, but all he managed was producing a sharp pain in the back of his skull. “Hodor, you must carry him. When no compliance with her order came, Sansa stood, her face disappearing from view. “Carry him!” Clearly the best way to proceed. Pain erupted in his side and back as he was lifted with none too gentle a hand from the ground. “Bran will know something.”

Or one of those green creatures scuttling about. The Children. Jon would have been willing to bet his life on the fact that they were creatures of myth, existing in tales only. To be dependent upon their mercy was simply staggering. A blow he would have avoided had he the power.

“Hodor,” the giant said, might be in agreement.

Summer growled. Strange to think Bran watched them through the eyes of the beast. It was comforting too by a manner. Yet nowhere near what had been before. He supposed he would gladly trade the warm affection which had come to develop between him and his living siblings had he but a chance to go back in time and stop any of it from taking place. Rumination remained a strength of his, it seemed, even as consciousness slipped further and further away.

The last thing he heard was the grim rumble, produced by the ever faithful Brienne of Tarth who by rights should have been leading men into battle, not wasting away in these catacombs in company with the lot of them. That one was a strange woman. He thanked the gods every day that Lady Catelyn had extracted the promise she had from the knight.

Pain continued to burn a path through him. Even sightless, heedless and motionless, he presented himself as a prime target. Jon had tasted surrender many times before. He had felt the ashen taste in his mouth as the Wall was overrun and then once more when the Queen came with her dragons. Doubtlessly he would have done so yet again, in the flames of a stake-burning had it not been for the Crow and his brother. And Aegon, he4 supposed Aegon had helped as well. Jon sank deeper and deeper into the pit he’d been thrown in, yielding to the dark. He would wake at some point and find himself covered in leaves and chewed bark, to his annoyance. It was the way of the thing.

His predictions held true. When his eyes opened, heavy through they were, before him was a mound of leaves and at his side Sansa. She leaned over him, a murmur of gratitude leaving her lips. “I would have followed you to the afterlife and given you a good tongue-lashing. How dare you put yourself in such danger? You are very lucky we found you when we did.”

“I thought only to spare you the indignity of captivity.” Her eyes hardened. “Tywin Lannister, had use for you, Baelish too. Even Jeoffrey Baratheon, in his own way, followed a twisted plan. This one is a queen whose need only extends as far as your destruction.”       

“Queens have tried to destroy me before.” The confidence in her voice did not bode well for the girl’s safety. “She will fail. Joffrey failed and Petyr fared only slightly better.” Heartening though it had been for him to find her more or less unscathed after her encounters with these men, the stroke of luck left much to be desired. “Besides, it shall take her moon turns to conquer these parts. Much as I hate to admit it, the Others have the advantage of her.”

The Children would not aid the woman from Essos who claimed to be the Mad King’s daughter anymore than they would Jon. Their pact was with Bran only. Much of the Watch had been decimated, thus they too could offer little by way of help. As for the pyromancers, the gods only knew what they could do. Still, the Queen had three dragons, a host of men and, lest one should forget, the temper of a Targaryen. It would either lead to a crushing defeat, or the greatest victory man had ever known. Personally, he was praying for the latter.

“A matter of time until she finds what is needful for their defeat.” Someone had to know something. Much of the ancient library of the Wall had been conveniently turned to ash, even so Sam had taken some scrolls with him and the Wildlings passed stories down by word of mouth.

“I would sooner slit my own throat than receive her judgement.” On that much they agreed. Jon sat up slowly, waving away her offer to help. “Brienne should be returning shortly with some water. Would it not be better to simply wait?” Sansa questioned the wisdom of his fidgeting about.

“It would be better, if any such thing can be, to find my feet and return to searching.”

“You are chasing perdition.” Jon failed to disagree. “Whatever you think you are guilty of, I’ve already lost more family than I care to recall. If you take off on your own again, I will simply follow you. And then you shall be sorry when the both of us end up at the bottom of some ravine. As your sister, I can only ask that you do your duty and protect me.”

He sighed. “Danger is nigh wherever we are. If you follow me, I will simply take you back and break one of your legs. Hobbling about has never been a strong point of yours. Brienne I trust to keep you with her when you find yourself in such a condition.”

“If,” the sister corrected with just a dash of petulance. “And you forget Brienne is sworn to keep me safe, not to order me about. I am mistress of my person and naught you say will dissuade me. Thus, brother, if you care, you will not put us in danger.”

He neither agreed, nor disagreed. Jon was decided his would be a quest to somehow end their suffering. If both should perish, that was an end in itself. Instead, he allowed himself to be pushed back. Sansa’s palm touched his forehead. “No fever,” she noted, her voice dropping to a silk-like caress. Little wonder that it had been purported to charm a thousand hearts. Little wonder it had charmed the heart that mattered. He waited upon further speech. Having gained a taste for ordering her elders about, she did not disappoint. “See that it remains so. No fidgeting about and no straining your wounds with folly. Or so help me, the Stranger will be the next with whom you converse.”       

To test the conviction of her words, Jon moved on his side. Sansa, however, did not proceed to make good on her promise beyond the opening of her mouth as shallow light entered his line of sight. Brienne had returned and she carried, as Sansa said she would, water with her. The Maid of Tarth sat herself on a pile of ragged furs, handing his sister what she had requested.

“Storm is a–coming,” the knight commented, resting her blade against the earth wall. “Likely as not we’ll be down here for the next few days or so.” Fortunately for them, Brienne considered it her duty to cover all of Sansa’s needs, which meant that while the meat might spoil slightly, they would like nevertheless.   

Summer appeared from the shadows, shaking himself with vigour. He sniffed about until his snout touched Sansa’s knee, upon which the beast yawned and propyl settled its head into her lap. Jon searched about for his own Ghost, but that one merely lifted its head as if to scoff at the possibility of closeness and assumed its position once again, undisturbed. A most promising occurrence, Jon thought to himself. He did not try to reach out. Ghost deserved rest.

“Good. My hare-brained brother won’t have a chance to neglect his wellbeing then.” Brienne nodded her head, wiping at the scar running down what had once been unmolested skin. She only managed to darken it further, as dust and dirt crowned her efforts.

“That will only make it worse,” Sansa finally said, brushing Summer off to change positions. “Best to leave it be.” The woman grumbled in response, but she did draw her hand away. “I swear, the two of you will be the end of me.”

“Cruel words,” he chuckled, finding humour despite the terrible ache in his chest.

“Not nearly as cruel as you deserve, knave.”   

“You wound me nevertheless,” he goaded. The few days to come would not be easy on him. Glad though he was to have even as one member of his family returned whole to him, it pressed upon his conscience that she found him to be responsible for her in any way. Not merely for not wishing it. He was destined for death. He’d yet to own to as much to his sister. But the Crow had told him.

On whom would she rely then? There was Bran, yet the path he walked might prove too much for Sansa. Which could only work to make Jon glad she had some form of protection in Brienne. Pity that one hadn’t been born a man. He would have fain entrusted his sister in such capable and devoted hands.   

“Have some water.” Lifting his head gently, Sansa proceeded to act in the manner of loving and caring sister, leaving no stone unturned in her mission to bring his relief.  Somehow Jon found himself simultaneously grateful and put out for it. Her actions merely served as reminder. One lucky escape did not translate into even the dream of a chance.

“Do not drown me just yet.” She pursed her lips in annoyed denial.

“Might be his fever is returned,” the knight offered helpfully. Good Brienne, always willing to see her duty best done.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the tropes, people. This one was the last left to check as far as I know. So, all the tropes and three years and we dome, baes.


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